


S11E07 - Nothing Else Matters

by awed_frog



Series: Supernatural - Season 11 [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (sort of), Action/Adventure, Canon Compliant, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Season 11, Season/Series 11, Succubus, a bit of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 13:38:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4350854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awed_frog/pseuds/awed_frog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’ll turn your back on – on Hell, for what? For one sweet night with me?”</p><p>He opens his eyes again, and sees she’s edged even closer, and there’s a look in her eyes – a <em>look</em> – Dean has seen it many times before, but –</p><p>His thoughts stray again, and now he’s in Bobby’s safe room, two feet of solid iron around him, and Cas is on the threshold, and he looks downright murderous for a second, but then something shift in his eyes, around his mouth, and next –</p><p>“Stay with me, Dean,” says the demon, and her hand goes lower, traces the shorter hair on the nape of his neck, making him shiver, tremble with pleasure. “I want you. That’s my price.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are - seven chapters completed and fourteen to go. I am borderline happy with where this story is going, and I feel I am learning a lot by writing it down, so I am really grateful to you guys for taking the time to go down this road with me. Which is why I’m giving you a double chapter today – part one is up now, and part two should be up in a few hours.  
> Although, to be honest, the real reason for a double chapter is that _Nothing Else Matters_ rocks (duh!) and virtually all couplets fit our favourite couple so well - I spent about two hours agonizing over which one would work best as intro, then realized I am bloody _writing_ this and can do what I want. #I have a jar of dirt

_Never opened myself this way_  
Life is ours, we live it our way  
All these words I don't just say  
and nothing else matters. 

 

The journey to the playground takes them exactly four more hours (“Your wardrobe is very frugal, Dean. I admire that. Clothes are an indulgence, and jeans look good on you.” - “You are exceedingly brave. That is a most unusual quality, in a being not bred for battle.” - “Apparently freckles are not supposed to be attractive on a man, but I never understood why. They are most fetching on you.” - and, right at the end, very hesitantly, “I like how devoted you are to your brother. I can tell when you’re thinking about him because your soul becomes…”) and by the time they’re nearing the town, Dean desperately needs a beer. Or ten.

“Let’s go for a drink,” he says, slowing down when he sees the lights of a run-down bar up ahead.

“Are you sure that is wise?”

This is the first time Cas has deigned talking to him outside of the hourly compliments, and he sounds flat and empty, just like he used to back when he was still learning to speak without shattering Dean’s eardrums. Dean had thought he was being clever, but his whole revenge scheme ended up being more unsettling than satisfying. Four hours, and he is already tired of this - Cas ignoring him for fifty-nine minutes, and then a small movement (his hands clenching and unclenching in his lap; his head turning away from Dean, looking at the barely visible fields outside the window) and the reluctant, soft admissions. Dean had tried to summon enough willpower to put a stop to the whole process - he’d felt downright mean, truth be told - but every time he’d worked up the courage to say something, he’d ended up swallowing his sentence down, a desperate longing for a normal Cas, for his usual guardian angel (90% obliviousness, 10% sass, and 100% on his bloody side) becoming stronger with every passing mile.

“The world can keep ending for another twenty minutes, Cas. Come on.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Of course it’s not. Why should things start to be easy now? Dean has spent the last four hours on tenterhooks, essentially replaying every one of Cas’ compliments in his mind and eagerly awaiting the following one. He hasn’t felt like such a pathetic little bitch, actually, since he was fifteen and Robin had seemed the end of the road - the one woman for him, for all eternity. Dean still remembers lying down in bed in the darkness, the other boys asleep (Jimmy snoring a bit, Kit mumbling things), as he replayed his conversations with Robin in his head, over and over again. Which had been pretty normal, in the end, considering he had zero experience and Robin couldn’t actually look inside his mind at will, while Cas –

And yet Dean can’t stop thinking about it.

Because, well, so Cas doesn’t love him anymore (he did? _how_ did Cas love him, exactly?) and also wants to kill him, a little bit; all that doesn’t matter, tough, because Cas also thinks Dean is brave and frugal (whatever the hell that means), and a right family man and attractive ( _attractive_ ), down to his last freckle. Attractive: that had been his first compliment to Dean, the first thing he’d come up with when given that miserable task, and Dean can’t stop obsessing over the fact. It’s pathetic, that’s what this is. Downright shameful. Dean has tried for hours to extricate himself from this line of thinking; to forget that Cas was sitting two feet from him; to ignore the usual, subtle smell of large spaces and fresh mountain air coming from him; to avoid noticing, every time he switches gears, how close their hands are - how simple it would be to breach that distance, to just - 

Not that he wants to. Not that he is attracted to Cas that way.

Not that it would matter if he were.

_Goddammit._

Dean looks askance at Cas, his straight nose and slightly downturned, disapproving mouth.

“I’ll keep my hands to myself, I promise,” he scoffs. “You can sit out here, if you prefer, but as for me, I really need a beer.”

Without checking to see if Cas is following him, Dean gets out of the car and walks to the bar. It’s sort of a biker place; it badly needs a layer of fresh paint, and looks seedy and unwelcoming, but, well, Dean isn’t feeling much better himself, so. Clenching his jaw, he glances up at the feebly flickering neon sign (it’s supposed to read _On the Road_ , but the first word is out of juice and the whitish cursive letters are barely visible in the half darkness) and wrenches the door open.

He counted two bikes and a truck outside, and, out of habit, he immediately scopes out the place, finding five men (two playing pool, and the other three sitting in the far left corner) and a barmaid (pretty), as well as two other doors (possible exit points). For bloody once, though, he’s not here to work or kill anything. He doesn’t even feel like joining the guys at the pool table. It’s not like he needs money, anyway. It’s the end of the world, and he will bloody give himself a break and drink a bloody beer.

“Hi,” he says, smiling at the barmaid as he lets himself drop down on a barstool.

“Back at you,” she replies, and flashes him a smile.

“You got the short straw?” he asks, and she snorts.

“Yeah, like Gary wanted to come in in this climate. I don’t mind, though. Better here than sitting home alone.”

“I know the feeling.”

Dean doesn’t know why he said that, why he said it _that_ way; it’s not like he wants this girl, not now, anyway, but this is who he is, who he’s been his whole life, and it’s very hard to stop. Without even realizing he’s doing it, he winks at her. She laughs.

“I’m Maisie,” she says, placing a glass in front of him and reaching for a bottle behind her.

“Dean. How did you know what I wanted?” he asks, as she pours him a whiskey (because, well, he was thinking _beer_ in a very stern and convincing way, but truth is, the time for beer is long gone).

“You look the type. Isn’t this what you like? Strong, flavourful, sweet and sharp on the tongue?”

“I already want to bed you, you don’t have to try so hard,” he says, and then stops, shakes his head.

He never meant to say this. Why is he saying this? Must be all that junk about Cas clogging up his arteries – because, fuck it, it’s not _fair_. Dean was much happier when he thought Cas’ love was about – about doves and rainbows and watching cave people discovering the bloody wheel. Cas has been saying _that_ for years, has been looking at him _that way_ for years, and Dean has always thought – every other goddamn angel has always implied it as well – that Cas cared too much about humanity and took his job too bloody seriously. There was no need to – to see it any other way. Only now, now there is. Because apparently Cas likes Dean’s freckles, of all things, which means –

Dean’s jeans (the ones Cas think they’re frugal and show off Dean’s legs, that is) are becoming a bit tight, and Dean shifts in his seat.

“Sorry,” he manages. “I don’t know why I – it just slipped out.”

“I’m sure it did,” she answers, making it as dirty as she can, and Dean’s pants become even more uncomfortable.

“I don’t –” he starts, and then falters, because what is it, exactly, that he doesn’t do?

“Oh, but you do,” says Maisie, and her smile becomes downright predatory. “You’re everything I’ve heard and more, Dean Winchester.”

She flashes her black eyes at him, and this is the moment Dean should wake up – she’s a demon, for fuck’s sake, and he’s just sitting there, nursing his first glass of whiskey and trying make his erection go away before it tears a hole through his jeans, because this is exactly what it's threatening to do, and it’s never felt this way before, like it could literally explode and tear him apart. And this is how Dean comes to the belated realisation – Maisie is not just any demon, she’s a _succubus_. She must be. Which means he’s in big trouble. He thinks about Cas, who’s probably still sitting outside in the bloody car, thinks about calling for help, or, better still, yell at him to stay the fuck away, but thinking about Cas makes things even worse, because now Dean can hear, once again, the angel’s low voice in his ears ( _They are most fetching on you_ ), and he actually shivers, half falls off his stool.

“What do you want?” he manages, after a few seconds, righting himself, and his voice comes out all wrong.

“Crowley has a message for you,”she says, leaning in closer – the position she’s in, Dean can see right down her t-shirt, and _Oh God_ –

“What – what’s the message?” he growls.

“Sammy says hi.”

At this mention of his brother – the first mention of Sam, the first goddamn sign of hope, because if Crowley has him, that means Sam is alive – Dean actually moans, and then he swears loudly. He can’t stop himself, though, because this is what succubi do – they twist and corrupt every human feeling – hope, fear, rage – into this luscious, irrepressible lust. Dean tries to distract himself, but the wave of emotion (the vast, unbridled relief) he felt at hearing Sammy’s name is just too big to be fought. With another choice curse, he rearranges himself on the stool and presses his hand on his crotch, briefly, angrily, but all he manages to accomplish is to make himself even more frustrated.

“He’s probably touching your brother right now, you know. Slicing up his pretty white skin, pressing a blade against his nipples until he bleeds – can you see it Dean? Can you imagine that drop of blood making its way down Sammy’s chest, sliding across his abs, down to his navel?”

Dean is nauseous with the need of it, and, goddammit, he _can_ see it. He doesn’t want to, because of course he won’t think of Sam like this – his kid brother, for fuck’s sake – but he’s shared a room with Sam for thirty-two years, of course he knows what Sam’s body looks like – he’s stitched Sam up enough bloody times, thank you very much –

“Tell Crowley,” he starts, but now he’s so aroused it actually hurts. He has a moment of sheer insanity, considers just doing something, _anything_ , right there, in the middle of the bar –

“I can help you. I can be on your side, Dean.”

“Yeah, in exchange for what?” he snarls, and then has to close his eyes, because it doesn’t matter if Maisie is a demon, is the one controlling him, playing him like a bloody violin – she still has tits and a full red mouth and Dean can’t stop a flood of dirty thoughts from storming his mind.

“You’re a pretty boy,” she says, and Dean feels her hand through his hair, and, to his shame, leans in to seek more contact. “We can think of something.”

“You’ll turn your back on – on Hell, for what? For one sweet night with me?”

He opens his eyes again, and sees she’s edged even closer, and there’s a look in her eyes – a _look_ – Dean has seen it many times before, but –

His thoughts stray again, and now he’s in Bobby’s safe room, two feet of solid iron around him, and Cas is on the threshold, and he looks downright murderous for a second, but then something shift in his eyes, around his mouth, and next –

“Stay with me, Dean,” says Maisie, and her hand goes lower, traces the shorter hair on the nape of his neck, making him shiver, tremble with pleasure. “I want you. I want to see you come. That’s my price.”

“Best deal I ever had.”

Dean is only half joking, because he can’t control himself any longer. He stands up, the stool falling down with a soft noise behind him, and he grabs a fistful of Maisie’s t-shirt, pulls her towards him, crashes his lips on hers. She makes a low, mewling sound which goes straight to his cock, and pushes her tongue inside his mouth.

And then, just as Dean is on the verge of forgetting his own damn name, Cas walks in, and things get even worse.

# .:.

"I have one of those tattoos, now, so don't even think about it," it's all Jody Mills says, (Crowley replies, indignantly, _I wouldn't-_ ), and then she adds, "and a protective hex bag, as well."

Crowley stops talking, then – he shifts a bit in his seat and sniffs.

"Yew, belladonna and – raven's wing bones? Not bad. Not enough against me, but not bad."

"Thanks," she says, curtly, and she actually keeps driving.

Crowley doesn't know whether to be insulted or impressed at the way she is ignoring him; at her absolute lack of reaction when he'd appeared in the passenger seat of her bulky car, actually. After all, he _did_ try to kill her.

"Can I ask-" he starts, and, again, she interrupts him.

"Dean said we should work with you."

Her tone is neutral, clipped. After that first, startled look (Crowley, to his satisfaction, had detected a hint of panic), she hasn't turned towards him; hasn’t looked at him once.

"Jolly nice of him."

This is curious, though. Has Dean so easily disregarded Crowley’s threats to Sam? Because Crowley is sure the angel hasn't had the time, or the inclination, to share Crowley's own role in Dean's recovery. He knows Dean well enough to know he didn't want to be cured, not that way. And that Dean would kill him for being mean to his idiotic baby brother, that's another iron-clad certainty. The only possible explanation, therefore, is that Sam hasn't talked to Dean, which means he is even more of a tool than previous experience suggested. Unless he hadn't told Dean because Dean would be angry at his brother for trying to kill him - a filthy, filthy demon. The thought is strangely comforting.

"So?" asks Jody, and Crowley forces himself to abandon this fruitless train of thought.

"So I am at your disposal, sweetheart. How can I be of service?"

"Don't – just don't, okay?"

"Don't want?"

"Don't sweetheart me, and don't pretend you care. Dean can say what he wants – you're still a demon, and you still tried to kill me."

"It was nothing _personal_ ," he protests. "The Winchesters were trying to close the Gates of Hell, to keep us - _me_ – in there for all eternity! I had to do something!"

Jody glances at him, then away.

"I thought demons liked it in Hell," she says, and Crowley shudders.

"Hell is – complicated."

"How so?" asks Jody, and Crowley can see crystal clear (she might as well wave a sign over her head) that, while she doesn't want to be curious about this, she really is. As disgusted she is by him (because that’s something else she’s advertising quite openly), she’s also enthralled. If Crowley had a single conceited bone is his body (he really doesn’t, mostly because what looks like flesh and bone is something else altogether) he could go as far as to contemplate that she’s interested in him, personally. After all, he already knows she finds him attractive – during that ill-advised date he could smell her arousal, but of course, now it’s not a good time to bring it up – and why wouldn’t she, really? He is _adorable_ , after all.

Unfortunately, though, adorable or not Crowley is first and foremost a realist. There are only two kinds of women who would still be interested in a man after said man had tried to hex them into next week. Crowley is not demon enough to take advantage of the first kind, and he’s not crazy enough let himself be saddled with the second.

Professional interest it is, then. And didn't he just read a book about this? The charm of evil? Or maybe it was that other one, the banality of evil. Evil is charming; evil is banal; evil is many, many things, and none of them really matter right now.

"Hell is meant as a punishment for us much more than it is a prison for humans," says Crowley, and then he feels unsettled for no reason. It's not as if he's revealing state secrets, here, after all: there are hundreds of theologians who've written about the issue before, and Dean bloody Winchester could hold a chair in Hell Studies in bloody Stanford, if he were so inclined. "Some become so corrupt they end up enjoying the warped logic of it: inflicting pain as a means to escape pain. Others, however, keep their wits about them and just try to get out."

"So demons are really sad, misunderstood puppies?"

"No," drawls Crowley. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

 _There is no way a person could endure the decades of torture necessary to erase all traces of their humanity, and not be corrupted by it_ \- the sentence is right there, just behind his teeth. Crowley, of course, has lived through the process himself, and has spied on Dean enough to know even a Righteous Man has his limits.

He doesn’t want to tell her that, though. The day is depressing enough as it is.

Instead, he fiddles with the glove compartment; manages to get it open, sees enough to know there's two guns in there before Jody reaches over and clicks it shut.

"I am simply saying – it is a matter of crime and punishment, is all. The same problem you have up here, actually. As a former police officer, I am sure you are familiar with its ins and outs."

It’s becoming to grate on Crowley’s nerves how bloody dark it is. When he’d finally been allowed to walk away from the rack, to leave his knife behind (he’d thrown it into the flames; he’d never wanted to see the thing again), he’d agreed to become a crossroad demon just to see the sun again. He loved warmth – not the unholy heat of the Pit, but the normal, boring warmth of summer – the shifting of it – how the sun would be more light than heat in the first hour after dawn, and how the feeling of the rays on his skin would then stretch and change, become this soothing caress, up and down his body. His favourite place: a small beach in California, carefully concealed (a few letters in pig’s blood and lime had done the trick), intended for his personal use. Over the years, he’d killed six demons who’d accidentally found out about it. It’d been worth it. And now, that is lost. Now, all around them everything is dark and quiet. There is a sort of light on the horizon, a lighter, reddish hue which these days means it's probably evening, but nothing more.

Jody slows down, drives around an abandoned trailer, speeds up again.

"You know, the whole idea that prisons make people worse? That’s because you respond to pain with more pain; and you respond to being respected by respecting things. It's not rocket science."

Jody huffs.

"So you're a psychologist now? Good to know."

"I do have a B.A., yes,” he says, and grins when she turns at looks at him, bewildered. “What can I say? Fascinating stuff, and it comes in surprisingly handy when trying to con people into selling their souls. Although a nice pair of tits tends to work even better, of course."

Jody grits her teeth, focuses on the road again.

"Why are you even here?" she asks, after a few moments, and something in her _done with your shit_ , determined expression makes Crowley realize she could soon make the list of humans he actually likes.

"I meant what I said in that restaurant," he replies. "I know what it's like to lose someone."

The car screeches to a halt in the very middle of the road.

"Don't you ever," says Jody, low and dangerous, her eyes still straight ahead, "mention that again. _Ever_."

“Jody –” he starts, but she talks over him, loudly.

"Gabriel said he could go in full angel mode to convince the mayor something supernatural is going on. Seems to be the only way to get them to salt their windows and the like -"

"As if that's going to help. We're not the problem here."

"- because at this point, it's more useful to act against demons than to tell people everything will be okay, and to please not water their lawns, just in case. I’ve been driving around all day, and I saw a dozen car crashes – what happens when people start dying and not dying at the same time? Or whatever the hell is actually going on?"

"I am sure you know best," he says, and smiles when he sees her shooting him a very dirty look. "I repeat, then: how can I help?"

"Gabriel has disappeared. Angel business, or something. How convincing can you be?"

"At being an archangel? Not so much. But I can do both angel and _Do as I say or I'll gut you_ pretty well."

"Great."

There is a moment of silence. Jody’s hand moves to the ignition, then away. She doesn’t restart the car.

"How did you find me, anyway?"

"Oh, I've been keeping an eye on you. You were someone the Winchesters couldn't bear to lose, after all. Now, you disappeared from my radar for a while – how did you do that? wards? hex bags? – but I was sure you'd pop up again. And that Dean would contact you, if -"

He hesitates, unwilling to go on.

"- if he was still alive. I know that feeling, believe me."

“Yes, well.”

They sit in silence for about ten minutes after that, and Crowley, not for the first time, wishes he could stop being a demon for a bloody second and just relax. Right now, for instance, he could fool himself into believing this is a companionable silence – if he were human, that is. As a demon, though – he can’t exactly read Jody’s mind, nor is he trying to, but he perceives the rest of it well enough – her fear, her worry, her sense of betrayal. He knows (he’d checked) that that date of theirs had been her first dinner with a man since her husband had died (had been torn to shreds by his own child). He knows (can smell it on her) that she hasn’t been with a man since; not truly; not fully. And he knows (because, well) that he had a major role in making that happen.

Absently, he fiddles with the glove compartment again, feels her fingers on his, briefly, firmly, as she clicks it shut again. 

“I wouldn't have done it, you know,” he says, out of the blue, and wishes, briefly, desperately, that it was true.

“What?” says Jody, and then she understands, and her hands tighten so much on the wheel her knuckles turn white. “Killing me? Please.”

“I'm serious.”

“You can save your lies for someone who cares. Dean told me about those other people – you murdered them in cold blood.”

“I never said I didn't. But I didn't have dinner with any of them.”

Jody laughs in disbelief, turns the engine on, then off again.

“So, what, I'm _special_?”

“I told you that night we had a connection. I wasn't lying.”

“You're a demon. Lying is what you do.”

Crowley stops, looks away, then at her. She is downright angry now, which is how it should be. No Stockholm syndrome, here. She needs to be stronger than that for what lies ahead, he thinks, and the thought saddens him.

“Why do you think I became a demon?”

“You –”

Jody stops, blushes, and Crowley finds himself smiling.

“Ah. So Dean told you about _that_.”

“Sam did.”

“Dear old Moose” says Crowley, a hint of worry in his guts, there and gone in a second. There is nothing nobody can do for the guy now. “Always my best interests at heart.”

Jody doesn't answer, and Crowley sighs.

“I was the one to tell them that. And, well, it was a lie.”

“That’s a shocker,” she says. “But I have this feeling you’ll tell me the truth now. Because I’m special, and all.”

Her voice manages to be just the right shade of defiant and fascinated - Jody Mills just made the list, and this is why Crowley hesitates only for a moment (they’re all going to die, and soon, so what the hell) before speaking again.

“I did it to save my brother,” he says; then senses her incredulity, and adds, a bit defensively, “Why do you think I like Dean so much? His rugged good looks?”

“Well –”

“Look, I'm not saying I wouldn't fuck him. Again,” he adds, just to see her squirm and, bloody hell, because it's God’s honest truth, even if Dean would probably want to forget all about it. “And he _does_ make the most adorable sounds when he –”

He sees the expression on Jody's face, then, lets it go. _Be clever on your own time, not mine_ , Dantalion would say when he was training him. Well - he'd said once. The second time –

“But, yes, I had a younger brother. Not _her_ son, praise the Lord. He was my father's second wife. His name was Robbie. He was much younger than I, used to follow me around. A right pain in the ass, he was,” he says, trying not to smile, and failing. “Taught him to juggle so he’d keep busy and stop badgering me. And then one day – he’d just turned nine – one day he got a fever and wouldn't wake up. We called a priest – no doctor would come, not to our house - and the good father told me he could cure my brother. In exchange for payment.”

“Payment?”

“A kiss,” says Crowley, and Jody's eyebrows go so far up her forehead they are in danger of disappearing completely.

“It wasn't unusual,” he adds. “Still isn't, according to the left-wing press. And I'd done it before, which is another reason –” Crowley checks himself, remembers she doesn’t know this about Dean, that no one, perhaps, knows this about Dean except Castiel, and whether Castiel would understand what it even means is a mystery for the ages “- anyway, he forgot to mention the second part, the whole selling your soul thing. So Robbie lived, and I died. And I turned. And then I did what I had to survive.”

After a full minute of silence, Jody turns to look at him.

“And that’s the full truth,” she says, and it’s not a question, not really, but he answers it anyway.

“There’s no such thing as the full truth. But it is the truth, yes.”

“And yet you said - why would anyone lie about something like that?”

“Why does one lie, about anything?”

Jody frowns and starts the engine.

“Would you believe me if I told you I came up with that other story to get laid?”

“Yeah, because I’m sure that’s your problem – finding women who want you,” she says, a bit savagely; and then she seems to realize how that sounded – what that implied – and she frowns again, an angry blush on her cheeks. “Dean said we could trust you. Don’t make me regret it.”

And Crowley has to grin at her to stop the words coming out ( _I won’t_ ), because, well.

# .:.

Dean hears the door open and wrenches himself away from Maisie’s mouth; at least, that’s what he’s planning to do. What actually happens is that he barely manages to literally fall off her lips, all the way down to the floor. And it’s on his knees that Dean sees, thickly, as through fog, one of the men playing walking away from the table and move in front of Castiel; he shuts his eyes tight against the sudden blast of white light – his head seems to clear a little – and when he opens them again, the bar is filled with swirling black smoke as the other four demons flee the bar.

Dean cheers, very feebly, somewhere deep inside himself, because Cas is here, Cas will fix it – but, as soon as Cas steps closer, it happens – the room stretches and turns upside down, and Dean is not this pathetic wretch on a dirty floor, Dean is walking towards Cas, now, cocky and confident, and all he can see inside this warped-up reality his mind is imagining is how _Cas_ would look on his knees, his stupid trenchcoat off, his shirt undone – Dean can actually feel Cas’ badly shaven skin under his fingers as he passes them on his chin, slids his thumb inside Cas’ mouth, forces it open – not that there’s any real forcing involved, because Cas’ skin is very hot under Dean’s fingers – the angel is almost feverish, his blue eyes glittering with need on his pale face - 

“Stop it,” he whispers, a bit desperately. “Just stop it.”

Maisie’s voice is very distant behind him; a whole galaxy away.

“Stop what? This is all you, honey.”

“Be gone,” says a new voice, and this, of course, is Cas, Dean would recognize his sandpaper consonants anywhere.

He tries to anchor himself to the real Cas, then, to the actual angel standing in front of him, tries to walk away from the vision burning out his very eyes (Cas leaning forward, rubbing his face all over Dean’s still clothed -) but finds, to his dismay, that there is no real difference between dream and reality, because even this Cas in front of him, even the little he can see of the angel through this layer of madness and red (the glinting of the blade in his right hand, the worn fabric of his trenchcoat) is enough to completely undo him.

“No need to get scary. I meant what I said – I’m here to help you. And I keep my deals. Here is a token of my good faith.”

Maisie’s voice echoes strangely as Dean sees flash after flash – Cas appearing in the warded barn, the shadow of two gigantic wings behind him; Cas looking at him, then away, back in that parking lot ( _Just so you understand why I can’t help_ ); Castiel at the foot of his bed, the mere presence of him shaking Dean awake ( _Hello, Dean_ ); Cas’ hands, his straight nose, his blue eyes, and his firm, unshakeable faith in Dean’s goodness and worth –

As Dean falls forward on his hands, unmanned, overwhelmed and more aroused he’s ever been in his entire life, there is a loud bang, and a flash of red light. When Dean opens his eyes again, he sees a pair of shiny black shoes. He looks up, very slowly, feeling like he could throw up at any moment.

“Here you are. I was beginning to worry,” says Crowley.

Dean watches the demon’s face, wishing he could say something biting in return, and then he immediately drops his head, struggling against another bout of nausea.

“But I can see you’re fine. Marvellous.”

Crowley’s voice stretches and twists; it becomes something which is not even a human voice at all, and Dean can only make sense of it by grasping those British vowels very tightly; _marvellous_ , he mutters, without realizing he’s doing it, trying to remember what the word means.

“And you’re all better. Glad to see it.”

Dean feels Crowley turn around. He must be facing Cas now, but what does he mean? Does he know Cas met Jesse? Does he even _know_ about Jesse, period? The thought swims inside his mind for a second, then disappears.

“And how did _you_ summon me? Those were not your orders. How are you even powerful enough?”

Crowley has moved again. Dean opens his eyes a fraction, sees the black shoes are now pointing towards the counter. He’s talking to Maisie, says the sliver of his brain that still works.

“I am not. I have powerful friends, though,” says Maisie’s voice; only, it’s not a girl’s voice any longer, not exactly; it has a lot more to do with violent rain than it does with a human voice, and yet it still makes Dean shiver with want.

“Your mother says hi,” she adds, and Dean hears Crowley’s curse ( _Bollocks!_ ), sees a Devil’s trap erupt into existence not two feet in front of him.

There is another flash of bright light, and Dean looks up.

Gabriel has appeared out of thin air, and he’s now standing on Cas’ left. His eyes pass from Dean to Crowley to Maisie, and then his hand moves upwards, towards the sword strapped across his back.

“You, I will disembowel later. Slowly, and carefully,” says Crowley, and though he doesn’t turn around, something in his tone makes it clear he’s talking to Maisie. “As for you two – no need for weapons, is there? I mean, I do apologize. Sincerely, and profusely. I freely admit to it: I should not have sent a succubus after Dean. In retrospect, a terrible idea. We all know he can’t keep it in his pants,” Crowley adds, gesturing at Dean; and then it seems he can’t help himself - his eyes flicker to Dean’s crotch, and he adds, with a smile, “Or, well, just barely.”

Cas starts forward, and Gabriel puts a hand on his arm, stilling him, and the gesture finally allows Dean to focus, if only just a bit - it highlights the sense of danger mounting around them – Maisie might have lied, but Crowley is Crowley – he may well know where Sam is, Dean can’t allow –

And it goes beyond that. The realization trickles over Dean like syrup, dripping from the very centre of his brain, reaching lower (over his eyes, his nose); Dean can feel it inside his mouth, too sweet, too thick, borderline unpleasant, and yet –

Because _he doesn’t want Crowley hurt_. Not anymore, not, perhaps, for a long time. And if he doesn’t snap out of it, right bloody now –

“Come on, now,” and Crowley is talking again, filling the silence (is he afraid of the two soldiers of God in front of him, ready and willing to kill him? or maybe he’s more like Dean than Dean ever imagined, and part of him is pushing them, taunting them, hoping they will make it quick, and then finally, _finally_ it will all be over). “I was looking for Dean because I worry about him. Because I actually _like_ him. A sentiment which seems to be all the rage these days,” he adds, maliciously, and Dean looks up, sees Crowley’s eyes shift from Gabriel’s intense expression to Cas’ cold anger. “And, after all, he likes me back, don’t you, Squirrell? That time in Topeka, I would have been happy to just watch. You were the one who felt otherwise. Remember, _sweetheart_?”

Crowley chose the word carefully, and he pronounces it slowly, syllable by syllable, the final vowel way longer than it has any right to be; he’s talking to Dean in an obscenely intimate way, and Dean feels himself respond.

Still drunk on the succubus’ spell, Dean hears the moans and sighs of the two women on the motel’s bed; he sees himself turning to face Crowley, who’s stretched out on a chair; sees himself getting up, his naked skin only just starting to bloom with red (bites and scratches and lipstick); he bloody watches as his memory self walks over to Crowley, extends a hand in invitation; is yanked forward, falls to his knees, feels the expensive fabric of Crowley’s suit against his face. Dean breathes harder, completely lost in the memory, unable to get out, and then -

There is a loud screech and an explosion of black smoke as Maisie disappears and the girl’s body falls to the floor; Dean wakes up, fully, completely, and as harshly as if someone had dropped a bucket of iced water over him; Gabriel disappears as well (the motion of his wings causes the bottles on the counter to fall off and shatter); and Cas takes the angel blade from his sleeve in a swift, graceful movement, and launches himself at Crowley.

“Wait!” shouts Dean, scrambling to his feet, and he places himself between the two of them.

Cas does not take any notice of him; he just pushes him with his free hand, and Dean is thrown to one side, lands on the floor face first, tastes blood in his mouth. He shakes his head, trying to clear it, and when he manages to get on his knees, he sees that Crowley has inched back as much as he can (which is not very far at all); he has a hand out, palm up, a conciliatory gesture – is he -? Fucking hell. He _is_. He’s actually trying to talk, to _parley_ his way out of this (“I saved your life! You owe me!”) but Cas is ignoring him, Cas keeps advancing on him, almost glowing with rage and light – Dean’s eyes shift to the his angel blade high over his head – the metal is almost too bright to look at -

Dean crawls forward, wincing against the pain in his chest (broken ribs?); he stretches out his fingers, gets to the margins of the Devil’s Trap.

“Go,” he says, too quietly, but Crowley hears him: as soon as Dean’s thumb, wet with blood, has erased a millimeter of the white chalk, he disappears.

And then Cas turns on Dean.

“Wait,” Dean says again, as he sees the angel advancing on him, but Cas doesn’t listen; he picks up Dean like he weighs nothing at all and steps them both to the nearest wall, their shoes crunching on broken glass.

“Why do you keep putting yourself in danger?” he asks, shoving Dean against the wall, and his eyes remain completely indifferent as Dean winces with pain (the back of his head, his broken ribs).

“Why do you keep trusting the wrong person?”

Cas closes the distance between them, and Dean grabs the lapels of his coat, stammers out a couple of confused words ('Wait, I don’t -'), but the angel ignores him, forces Dean’s hands off himself easily, and all they leave behind is a bloody imprint, shockingly red on the tan fabric.

“You are _dead_ already. Why can’t you -” says Cas, just this side of shouting, and he closes his hands on Dean’s wrists, pinning him against the wall.

“Cas –” starts Dean, again, but he can sense the electricity in the air – the whole room feels like a storm is about to break out ( _I don’t think you realize how close he came to killing you_ ), and Dean can’t think, can’t even see clearly, can’t focus on anything else than the hard line of Cas’ mouth, right in front of him.

“It meant nothing,” he finds himself saying, and that is when Cas stops moving, and the expression on his face –

Quite possibly, Dean is delusional, and still riding on the high of the succubus’ spell, but at that exact moment, there is only one way he can understand what Cas is telling him – has been telling him for _years_ , actually.

“Good job with the not loving me thing, by the way. Nailing it so far,” he whispers, despite himself, because he’s a bloody idiot and he must always say the wrongest possible thing.

“I said I can’t love you,” says Cas, and time seems to freeze for a single second, the lamp over their heads going off in white sparks, and Dean is suddenly in that barn again, can actually see, right now, Cas’ wings behind him, blackened and burned, and the angel’s next words hit him like a physical blow.

“I never said I don’t.”

Fiery blue eyes bore into his, and they are alight with - anger, thinks Dean, anger and pain and love and a desperate, naked _longing_. Without thinking, without planning to, Dean leans his head forward, closing the distance between them, and kisses the angel on the lips.


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You like him,” says the stranger, and he sounds surprised.
> 
> Dean wills himself to come back to the present, to focus on the room again. To look at this guy who’s taken the most single beautiful moment in Dean’s life and made a complete mockery of it. He feels, briefly, painfully, the taste of Cas’ mouth on his own; and then he lets his head fall back, against the wall, and shrugs again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I am late – awkward family dinner got in the way. Guess who talked to the dog for three hours. #Good boy

_So close, no matter how far_  
Couldn't be much more from the heart  
Forever trusting who we are  
and nothing else matters 

 

For one full second, Cas remains completely still; and then, then Dean feels Cas’ hands contract on his wrists, and Cas kisses him back with such force Dean’s head is knocked against the wall. Dean tries to get his hands up - he wants, more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life, to touch Cas, touch his face, pass his fingers on Cas' stubble, through Cas' stupid hair - but Cas has probably forgotten that he’s still pinning Dean down, and he’s way too strong to even notice Dean’s efforts to get free. Efforts which weaken and die, because when Dean takes control of the kiss, licking Cas’ lower lip, biting down, the sound Cas makes is so bloody raw that nothing else exists anymore.

Until Cas stops, that is. Until he stops and takes a step back and looks at Dean, and Dean doesn’t know what he expected, but definitely not this - not this expression of grief which is so deep it flips Dean’s heart upside down.

“Cas?” he manages to whisper, just barely, but before the word has even left his lips, the angel is gone, and Dean is alone in the empty room.

“Cas?” he calls again, and then he hears someone snapping their fingers, and suddenly the lights are back.

Shielding his eyes against the sudden brightness, Dean looks around, and sees -

_Son of a bitch._

_Gabriel_ is stretched out at one of the tables, and when he sees Dean looking, he kicks out a second chair.

“Join me?” he asks.

For an incredibly long second Dean remains rooted to the floor, his hands clenching at his sides; and then he starts walking towards Gabriel, and all he wants to do is gank the fucker, choke him into next week, angel or no angel, because this time he’s really crossed the line, this time –

“Yeah, no,” says the archangel, and he puts his hand up, palm facing Dean, and suddenly Dean can’t move an inch. “We’re doing this on my terms, not yours. Sorry.”

“What the fuck?” Dean snarls, “What do you even want? Am I – funny to play with, or something? Yeah, don’t answer that. I swear, I’ll –”

“Maybe you’ll want to hear the truth, before making promises you can’t keep.”

“The _truth_ ,” repeats Dean, and he can hardly keep his – his disappointment, his utter _disgust_ , out of his voice, because this is so _unfair_ –

“Do not presume to understand the motives of my actions.”

Gabriel is still sprawled out in the chair, but his voice speaks of venom and steel and another thousand hard, shitty things Dean is sure he never deserved in the first place. Sure, he’s fucked up a lot in his life, but he’s also payed for it – he went to fucking _Hell_ \- everyone he cares about is basically _dead_ – he’s dead _himself_ , for fuck’s sake, why can’t this fucker just –

“Stop thinking so loudly. It’s very unpleasant.”

“I’ll give you unpleasant. Why the hell did you do that?”

“I was looking out for my brother, Dean. I am sure you can appreciate the sentiment.”

“Looking out – Cas is _fine_.”

“No, he’s not. He doesn’t understand what’s going on between the two of you, and it is paramount that he never does.”

“Oh, please,” Dean all but snarls. “He commanded a fucking garrison – he’s billions of years old - and you want me to believe he doesn't understand -”

And Dean stops, because he doesn’t really know how to finish that sentence.

“And what exactly, Dean, should my brother understand?”

Dean just glares at him, and Gabriel laughs.

“So this, right here, is a good answer to your question. But since I am feeling sympathetic, I'm going to give you a second one.”

“Thanks, but I’m not interested. Just put me back and then get the fuck away from me.”

Gabriel tilts his head to one side, just barely, and the expression on his face shifts slightly. Dean is too angry to care, but the archangel looks – off, somehow. It is there and gone in a second, though, because as soon as Dean blinks, Gabriel is smirking again.

“If you truly care about my brother, I strongly advise you listen to me.”

In his next life, Dean decides, he’s going to be a mechanic. With his own place, that is. There won’t be any monsters or zombies or demons, and, most of all, there won’t be any of this bullshit – annoying people he really, really want to kill who just come out and say he can’t, because they have something important to tell him, some big fucking answer to bloody everything. Well, enough of this bullshit. In his next life, he’s fucking going to be in charge for bloody once.

“I believe you would call it,” starts Gabriel, after it becomes clear Dean isn’t going to say anything, and then he stops, frowns. “No, that won’t do.”

He stops, seems to gather his thoughts.

“Imagine being stranded in - in Moscow, or Tokyo,” he says, after a moment. “All you see are letters you can't read. All you hear are conversations you don't understand. Now, a human could either adapt and learn - but this would take him months, if not years - or he could choose to isolate himself, refuse to get to know an unfamiliar culture. He could walk down the same five streets every day and make a conscious decision never to learn what the names of those streets are. You with me?”

“Yeah,” says Dean, and he has to force an answer out, because he still can’t believe it - he - he kissed Cas. And maybe it wasn’t real, but it felt plenty real to him, and he can’t believe - he can’t believe he’s waited so long, actually. And the thought is freaking him out.

“It's the same for us, except for one, crucial, difference. Everything you see, and everything you don’t see - all that is is an emanation of our Father's Grace. As are we. Therefore, we have an instinctual understanding of the whole of creation - _if_ we let ourselves have it. If I chose to read those signs, Dean, it wouldn't take me months. I'd snap my fingers and just do it. Our disadvantage when it comes to understand what lies outside Heaven, however, is that for us every small variable is like a different language altogether.”

Dean passes a hand through his hair, tries to get his shit together.

“What do you mean, every small variable?”

“It means,” says Gabriel, and now he’s frowning again, as though this is really fucking difficult and dumbing it down enough so that one stupid human can understand it is physically hurting him, “That we can’t simply learn how to speak _human_. How to interact with humans. Are you familiar with computers?”

The question has something desperate about it, as though Gabriel really can’t think of another way to say what he wants to say.

“I use Google,” says Dean, and then he adds, with a syrupy smile, “and Youporn.”

Gabriel’s face goes blank for a second, then he’s back, and he looks more disapproving than he has any right to be. He actually starred in his very own _Casa Erotica_ blockbuster, after all (the DVD had bounced around in the Impala’s trunk for weeks while Dean waited for Sam to go away for a few hours so he could watch it).

“What I meant,” says Gabriel, pointedly, “is that machines can’t think for themselves. They require updates if they need to process new information.”

“Machines?”

Gabriel just smiles, and Dean feels a sense of dread squirming in his stomach.

_This can’t be good._

“When you are talking to someone, you can recognize their emotions, unless the person is very good at concealing them. You can tell apart rage and sadness, surprise and joy, and you can do so easily. This is partly because of your age and experience with people, and mostly because you feel, or have felt, the same emotions yourself. Humans function on empathy, first and foremost. But angels, Dean – we are a different breed of beings. In fact, we are not even alive, not in any sense you would recognize. Age and experience mean nothing to us. Can a computer learn from experience? From its mistakes?”

Dean can’t answer that. He knows that one night, God, must have been ages ago, because Sam was seventeen or so, and Dean remembers, quite clearly, how his brother and Bobby had discussed this very same issue – Bobby sitting at his desk, copying some Latin text on a notebook, and Sam sprawled out on the couch, his right index between the page of a yellowing book (probably some medieval philosopher, or even fucking Jane Austen, because Sam at that age was planning to get laid, like, never). Dean remembers coming into the house and stopping on the threshold, his hands black with grease; his eyes had moved between Sam and Bobby as he listened to the tail part of their conversation. Bobby, apparently, wasn’t a big fan of science fiction; but Sam had said, in that excited way only teenagers can manage, that very soon computers would be able to do just that – to update themselves, without even needing to be ordered to. And that, Sam had added, would mean the end of the human race as we know it, of human supremacy on Earth, because if you learn from your mistakes and you make your own decisions that means you’re thinking for yourself, and then -

“Humans are considerably complex. There is no ‘human’ code that we can install so we can understand you. Every variable, as I said, has its own code. Human sadness, one code. Human pity, one code. Human frustration, jealousy, joy - all different codes.”

Well. This could explain, if nothing else, how Cas can be this incredible warrior of God and still don’t get Dean needs four hours of sleep every night. But thinking about Cas now means feeling Cas’ lips on his own, the taste of his mouth, and this is why Dean is not happy at all with where this conversation is going.

“So you could - you could choose to understand why we hate but not how we love?” he asks, reluctantly, because he feels he was led to ask this question and he knows he won’t like the answer.

Gabriel nods.

“Yes. And we have, many times. And there is something else. All those codes, Dean - they slow us down. The more we learn, the weaker we are. If I understand exactly who someone is and why he feels the way he does, making a decision for him is much more difficult. I'll want to take more variables into account; to make sure he's happy, and not merely safe. Or miserable, that is, depending on the person,” he adds, a touch of his old malice slipping through the cracks.

“It's – come on.”

“It's how you win wars.”

And it’s easy, very easy, to look down at Gabriel (the invisible shield he put up against Dean is not there any longer, but Dean doesn’t have any fight left in him, and he sure as hell is not going to sit down next to this fucker, so that’s why he’s still standing, his hands fluttering at his sides, unconsciously looking for a weapon) and just accept what he’s saying. Despite his easy smile and his human-like behaviour, it was always clear Gabriel knew what he was talking about. He was never like Uriel, or one of those other mindless bots – Gabriel does not take orders, and he knows his shit.

On the other hand, Dean only has a GED, and it’s not like he scored brilliantly at that, but he’s not stupid. He knows what Gabriel just said is not how the world actually works; it’s just a theory, and a fucked-up one at that. He knows that the other option is on the other end of the spectrum – if you don’t care about the people you’re trying to save, then you might as well not do it, because you’re going to do a piss-poor job of it.

So, yes, he knows that by asking what he really wants to know he’s walking into something he won’t be able to walk out of, but fuck it. That kiss might have been an illusion, and, come to think of it, Dean doesn’t even know where Cas is right now, if anything in that bar (the succubus, the run-down pool table) was even real, but there’s still something going on between him and Cas, and it’s high time he figures out what the hell it is.

“And Cas -”

Gabriel doesn’t even need to think how to answer that, because, of course, he was expecting the question. Instead, he leans forward in his seat and looks up at Dean, his face going all serious and _I’m looking out for your best interests because I’m a charitable, unselfish being_.

“Castiel has been - rebooted - many times, if this is the metaphor you're more comfortable with. As you said, he's very old, and one of the most capable soldiers we have, but he's way too thorough - every mission he’s given, he carries out in painstaking detail. He even enjoys this fastidiousness of his, I think, as far as it’s possible for us to truly enjoy anything. I remember this one time – we were on Earth, because – well, never mind that – and then Michael blinked, and next thing we knew Castiel had disappeared. When we completed our task, we went looking for him - about three thousands human years had passed since he’d stepped out on us - and when we found him again, he was watching ferns grow. Said he got distracted.”

Dean thinks of Cas appearing on the Impala in a cloud of bees (he’d nearly crashed the car) and smiles. Three thousand years watching ferns – yeah, he can totally believe that.

“It's no laughing matter. Knowledge leads to empathy, which leads to love, and then to weakness and defeat. And we can never be defeated. The world's survival hinges on us being victorious.”

“Right,” says Dean, his tone just this side of insulting.

Gabriel rolls his eyes at him and looks like he wants to answer, but then he shakes his head and stretches back, cat-like. His red t-shirt rides up, shows a hint of naked skin. He sees Dean look at it, then away, and he smiles.

“Castiel was fascinated by you from the beginning, Dean. Why do you think he kept coming back? He watched you sleep, he walked in your dreams. And do you really think that little trip in the 70s was an absolute necessity? It wasn’t. That was Castiel learning to know you, filling in the blanks.”

Dean clenches his jaw. It sounds so logical when Gabriel says it, and yet he never even thought – he just assumed -

“But then something happened, something any idiot could have seen coming a mile away. In order to fulfill his mandate - help you, protect you, watch over you - Castiel was determined he should really know you - utterly and completely. Your soul and body, your past and present. Your most secret thoughts and your deepest fears. Your hopes; your dreams. But when the time came to understand how you love, well. My brother wanted to be thorough; he needed to update his system, so to speak; to add that one, crucial piece of code which could tell him more about you than anything else ever could and yet - yet he decided not to. He simply couldn’t. He'd grown attached to you by then, and he couldn't bear discovering that he meant nothing to you.”

“He never -” starts Dean, and then stops, tries again. “I –”

But this is a sentence which will not come out. He really has no right to ever say it, for one. Not after everything Cas has already sacrificed for him.

“He had no way of knowing that,” says Gabriel, almost gently. “Think about those signs in Moscow, Dean. What if I told you, _Of course this one is a consonant, how can you not see it?_ ”

Dean frowns, shakes his head. He can’t understand how this works, and he hates he has to take Gabriel’s word for it.

“And this is precisely my point: your last hope of surviving, and Castiel's last hope for himself, is to keep those noble feelings of yours well hidden.”

“What? Why? If Cas doesn’t understand -”

“Dean, my brother doesn't trust himself around you any longer. He's told you as much, hasn't he?”

Dean thinks about Cas walking away, about the cold echo of his voice ( _My love for you destroyed the world_ ), and he nods, his heart suddenly beating very fast, because this can’t be good – this really isn’t good -

“He is trying to keep his distance, because he knows he will keep acting on your behalf, regardless of the consequences. Only tonight, he almost killed a very useful ally because the demon was _flirting_ with you. My brother has been out of control for years - that ridiculous stunt he pulled with Michael - and he knows it. But he can’t bear leaving you, not completely. _Dumping_ you, as you put it, is the least painful option, but it's still destroying him from the inside out.”

“But if I just told him,” starts Dean, and he doesn't know how to finish this sentence, either, because what can he tell Cas, really? _How_ can he tell Cas? He feels himself getting hot, then cold, wonders if he’s having a panic attack. Remembers how easy that kiss had been (how sweet, how -) and thinks, hopes, that maybe there won’t be any need of talking. That maybe things will just work out.

And then it doesn't matter, at all, because Gabriel starts talking again, and Dean’s heart slows down, stops beating altogether.

“You must never do so. There is a reason love between an angel and a human is forbidden: angels are simply too powerful. Castiel would never hesitate to destroy any threat to you, and he would be able to. He would kill anyone, anything. He would alter the past, if he had to, to make you happy and to keep you safe. And if one day Castiel should come to believe he must choose between you and the world...you are our Father's creation, Dean, but so is the world. Unleashing the Darkness, however accidental that was – Castiel cannot choose you over the world, Dean, because that goes against his very nature, and the reason for which he was created, but he can’t bear to see you hurt. This is an impossible situation for him, which is why he's looking for alternatives. He tried walking away from you, many times, and it never worked. He considered killing you himself, only two days ago, as you know. And he'll soon understand, if he hasn't already, that he's not capable of it. Never will be. And at that point -”

“He'll kill himself,” says Dean, quietly.

“Yes.”

They remain in silence for a while.

“Isn't there any other way?” asks Dean, hating himself for how pathetic he sounds, and Gabriel sighs.

“Being loved, truly loved, by an angel is an uncommon and worthy experience, Dean. My suggestion is that you be content with that. If it’s sex you’re after, I’m sure you have plenty of alternatives.”

“I wasn't -” splutters Dean, because it’s true.

He really, really isn't. Not right now, anyway. And he isn't thinking about himself, either. He's known for a long time he doesn't deserve a happy life; that he’s not good enough to be loved, and certainly not by Cas. He’s never wanted to believe it, never understood why Cas kept coming back, kept helping him, kept freaking saying Dean was worth it.

No, he's actually thinking about Cas, and how things look from his side. Is it really possible Cas is physically unable to see something which (lately, anyway) is really fucking plain on Dean's face? Is it really possible he’s missed all those things Dean never said?

 _You’re like a brother to me_ ; that is the most Dean has ever managed to get out, and of course it doesn’t mean much, it doesn’t mean, in fact, anything, because Dean has failed his own damn brother, so what is Cas supposed to understand from that? He remembers their morning trip (God, it seems already so far away it could as well never have happened at all), the way Cas had said, _I like how devoted you are to your brother. I can tell when you’re thinking about him because your soul becomes –_ was that Cas trying to find out if Dean cared about him, at all?

Dean clenches his hands, thinks about punching someone, anyone (Gabriel is starting to look like a very attractive choice right now), then lets his fingers open again. Because, well, this is his bloody life. He never thinks something worse can happen, until it does; and he just assumes this is the worst he’ll ever feel until the ground gives out beneath his feet, and, hello, there’s a whole new layer of shit and misery down there. After all, one of the reasons he never said anything was because he'd always felt he'd shown his hand more than enough - always figured that if Cas was interested, well, all he had to do was ask. There could be no doubt as to Dean’s answer, surely? But he hadn't known, had never considered, that Cas couldn't understand him. That when he had Fallen and Dean had kicked him out of the bunker, Cas had accepted his words at face value ( _You can’t stay_ ), without seeing what any human child would have seen, clearly and plainly (the slight tremor in Dean's hands; the blank despair on his face; his regret, his guilt, his longing, his painful, humiliating need for Cas to just stay with him, because things were dark and scary and Dean had needed, more than anything, to keep Cas next to him, to make sure Cas was okay); without realizing what it all meant (three simple words, as steady and essential as a beating heart, a stubborn _I love you, I love you, I love you_ , emanating from every fiber of Dean’s being).

And now -

Dean takes a step back, lets himself slide against the wall ( _Cas kissed you against this wall, and now you will never kiss him again_ ), and sits down, because, really, his legs can't do their job anymore. It's a miracle they’ve managed to support him this far.

But he can’t break down. That’s the other fun thing about his life. He can’t give up, not even now. The world is ending because of him (bloody again), which means he needs to fight back.

And he will. In a minute.

Taking a deep breath, Dean forces his eyes upwards. Gabriel, apparently, has been waiting for him to shatter and glue himself back together, and when he catches Dean looking up at him, he looks right back, a slight, gentle smile on his lips.

“What about you, then? You know about humans, you understand all of this stuff, and yet you seem pretty -”

Dean gestures, unable to explain, words dancing just outside his reach (well-adjusted, sharp, unaffected), and Gabriel’s smile widens.

“I am an archangel, Dean. In terms of what I am and what I can do, there is as much distance between an archangel and an seraph as there is between a seraph and a human.”

When Dean looks unconvinced, Gabriel adds, in that same, placid tone, as if this is nothing, just an ordinary conversation, “I have seen God. I have fought at His side. I have been the glorious singularity, and multitudes, and time itself. There is nothing on this earth which can contain me or slow me down.”

And, just for a second, there is something – something wrong in his voice. Dean tries to focus on it, tries to listen to the warning in his guts, but he can’t think clearly.

“Also,” Gabriel adds, after a short pause, “I don't care about you lot all that much. Which seems to be an advantage, when it comes to strategic thinking, and this is pretty ironic, in a way. Why people do not see my Father had a well-honed sense of humour is beyond me.”

Gabriel smiles then, a small, private smile. Dean is struck again by how different he looks, so much so his instinctive answer dies in his mouth (‘Oh, we see that. We just call it being a son of a bitch’). He’d seemed different once already, of course, at the very beginning, but those few days on earth had managed to give him back a bit of his old edge, that flamboyant style which annoyed Dean so much. But now -

“Why are you being so nice all of a sudden? What’s with all the share and care?”

Gabriel smiles again, and this time his expression is a dead giveaway. Whatever this thing is, it’s not Gabriel. Just to be sure, to buy himself time, come up with a plan, Dean unfocuses his eyes, tries to look past the slender man with his honey-coloured hair, tries to see the wings and the sword - and sees neither. Instead, he has a glimpse of thousands of glinting, iridescent things - jewels, perhaps, or -

No. Not jewels. _Eyes_.

Dean considers getting back to his feet, decides he doesn’t give a crap anymore, and that getting killed sitting down is no less dignified than getting killed standing up. Still, he can’t help but feel for the grip of his gun, and its absence (Cas has it; and where is Cas, really?) makes him feel completely exposed - a kind of utter vulnerability he sorts of welcomes, because, at this point, fuck it.

“Who are you?” he asks tiredly.

“What gave me away?”

Dean shrugs, looks warily at the stranger, doesn’t understand how he allowed himself to be fooled. Of course, it was near perfect - not in a way Dean can put into words, exactly (he’s trying though; he’s remembering the stranger’s slow smirks, and how he would lower his head, just so, before saying something particularly significant: a state of the art imitation), but there was still something different; something off.

“Gabriel is more…”

The sentence trails away. It’s difficult to describe how Gabriel is, exactly, but, then again, Dean is not a poet, never was, and he could never put into words how monsters (monsters?) differ from humans, or even from each other; not in any beautiful or detailed way, not like Sam could - after more than a few beers, but still (‘She was...it was like she could see all the way through me, you know? She looked at me, and through me - she told me once she could see the blood moving under my skin, that it looked beautiful, like red lace. I’d never been wanted that way, Dean, not by someone who could actually see all of me; not by someone who knew me, completely.’).

“You like him,” says the stranger, and he sounds surprised.

Dean wills himself to come back to the present, to focus on the room again. To look at this guy who’s taken the most single beautiful moment in Dean’s life and made a complete mockery of it. He feels, briefly, painfully, the taste of Cas’ mouth on his own; and then he lets his head fall back, against the wall, and shrugs again.

“As much as it’s possible to like someone who’s killed you in a thousand different ways, but yeah. He’s okay.”

“A word of warning, then: I chose to approach you in disguise, so to speak, because you may find my present form distressing. There are very few humans, living or dead, who can bear the weight of an archangel. I was in a hurry, and had to improvise.”

The man smiles then, and shifts before Dean's eyes - and before Dean can do any more than blink in disbelief, becomes Bobby. Bobby fucking Singer. Killed by a bullet to the head Bobby Singer. Supposed to be in heaven Bobby Singer.

“I am Raguel,” says the creature, through Bobby’s mouth, with Bobby’s voice (and yet, yet it’s not his voice at all). “The first of all the angels, and God's companion. Your friend Bobby accepted to be my vessel. I am here to help you.”

“Of course you are.”

Dean is beyond caring, simply fed up with the whole thing. He doesn’t even know if he believes anything the guys is saying anymore.

“And how come you’re just popping up now? Things were pretty shitty up there for a while - down here too, actually – and, what, you had better things to do?”

“I Fell. I have been a prisoner in the Darkness for longer than this world has even existed, Dean. But when the Darkness was released, we were all released with it.”

“All?”

“Angels cannot die, Dean. They Fall. A slightly deeper Fall than the one you experienced when Metatron decided to shut the Pearly Gates, but a Fall nonetheless.”

It takes a very long time, or so it seems, for Dean to realize what these words imply; and when he does, his face loses the little colour it had left.

“Wait – are you saying – are you saying they’re _all_ back? Raphael, and Michael, and Lucifer – they’re back?”

“Didn’t you think to question how Gabriel was restored to you?”

“I –” Dean shakes his head, tries to clear it; he considers getting up, because apparently there is a lot more to do than he even imagined, but he can’t move, can’t seem to shift the huge weight pinning him down, crushing him. 

Because up until this morning, he sort of believed they could fix it. Sure, it was a mess. The end of all things, perhaps. But, then again, the Apocalypse was supposed to turn half the world into a wasteland of blood and locusts; and the Leviathans had already planned their burger farms and Happy Fucking Meals; and none of that had happened. They had managed to stop it. But that had been before, back when there was still a _they_. Back when Charlie could just walk into the Leviathans’ HQ and destroy it from the inside out, back when they’d had a network of hunters to help them out (Rufus, Annie, Richie, Ash, Ellen, and - Dean lowers his head, clenches his jaw so tight his teeth hurt - Jo). Back when his father was alive, had a magical notebook of things and seemingly knew everything. When Dean could count on Bobby to be there for him; when he could count on his brother, before Sam decided to drink demon blood and lose his soul and then redeem himself by keeping Dean alive at all cost (and hadn’t Dean told him not to? _God!_ ). When even in the most lonely, terrifying place he’d ever been to, an angel of the Lord had found him and loved him.

Now - what does he have now? What hope does he have to stop this on his own? 

“Michael and Lucifer are not on this plane yet. Their punishment for allowing the Seals to be broken, for very nearly destroying Creation, was severe, and not yet over. But it will be soon, and then, yes, they will join us.” 

Dean forces himself to breathe; to be an actual man, and not a little bitch. He needs to listen to the fucking archangel; to take part in the conversation. This was his fault; if there is any way to fix it, he has to know about it. 

“And you’re not worried about that? That your psycho brothers are coming back? That the _Devil_ is coming back?”

Raguel smiles, and it’s fucking weird to see that smile on Bobby’s face.

“He is not the Devil. Not as such.”

“Right,” says Dean, because, really, what else can he say to that?

He gets up, slowly a bit unsteadily (he feels like he’s been in bed, sick, or drunk, for a hundred years). He walks away a few paces, comes back. He’s been trying not to ask this since the bloody angel has appeared, and in a way, it’s really not something he wants to know, but he’s weak and pathetic and will ask anyway.

“So that’s all it was? An illusion?” he says, and he hopes his voice (rough, uncaring, to the point) can convey his meaning (Cas’ face, very close to his, as he says, _I never said I don’t_ ; Cas’ lips on his own, the urgency of it) because he can’t bear to say anything more.

“No,” says Raguel, for a fleeting moment, Dean’s heart starts beating again. “It was real, all of it, but I didn’t allow Castiel to experience it. As for as he’s concerned, you disappeared when the light went out.”

The archangel must have seen the expression on Dean’s face, because he adds, a bit hesitantly, “I know what those sparks meant for you. I apologize. I was not trying to be cruel. The energy required to mimic a seraph is...considerable.”

Dean looks up, then down.

“So you left him down there alone?” he asks, and Raguel, to his credit, does not point out that Castiel is a mighty angel with actual wings and doesn’t need a babysitter.

“He is with Gabriel,” he answers instead. “We will join them shortly.”

“So, that’s it then,” says Dean, after a short silence. “This is how it is.”

“I am sorry.”

And this is the thing: he really seems sorry. Whatever this guy is, he’s something different. For all his talk of machines, Dean would almost prefer it if the angels were _actual_ machines – learn how to deal with one, and you can deal with them all. Almost. Because, well.

“And what about me? What happens now?” he says, as an afterthought, and Raguel frowns.

“I was hoping you could help us to defeat the Darkness.”

“And if I do?”

“Your reward will be -”

“Yeah, I heard the pitch before, thanks. The burgers, the pornstars - great.”

“We can give you anything you desire.”

“Right,” says Dean, and there is so much bitterness in his voice that Raguel adds, softly, gently, “Someone else’s heart is not mine to give.”

Dean laughs, angry and mean.

“Okay, enough with this Dear Abby thing. What do I need to do? How do we fix it?”

He turns around as he waits for an answer; pretends to look at the room. It is already fading in the corners, he sees, furniture becoming somehow opaque as whatever spell Raguel has used to create it starts to dissipate. He struts towards a table, patting it, as if trying to understand what the trick is, but the truth is, of course, that he can’t face Raguel. He can’t look at Bobby when he knows he’s not really there, he can’t acknowledge what has been said and done in this room, he just - and he’s getting angrier, as well, mostly at himself, because, well, why did he let himself think, for one fucking minute, that he would deserve any of it? He was never good enough, not for his brother, not for Cas, and yet he keeps forgetting it, fucking up, ignoring the fact that he doesn’t even deserve to -

“Idjit,” says Bobby’s voice, behind him, and Dean swivels around, wiping away the tears.

“What did you say?”

“I was passing on a message,” says Raguel, in his measured, calm voice. “From here.”

He places his right hand of his chest, and that just about ruins Dean. Or what’s left of him, anyway.

“Is Bobby – they told us being a vessel for an archangel would -”

“I am not just any archangel. Bobby is safe, Dean. He is thinking of you.”

Dean turns away again, hears Raguel getting up, walk away from him.

“We will be outside,” he says, quietly, “when you’re ready to join us.”

The archangel starts walking again, stops.

“If it's any consolation, angels - we are machines, Dean. We were created to do a job. A mission. We are not capable of love, not the way you understand it. You should try and forget all of this.”

And, again, comes the sound of him walking, then a door opening and closing; and then Raguel is gone, and thank God, because Dean can’t hold it together any longer - with a yell of pain and rage, he picks up the chair closest to him and smashes it against the wall, again and again, until the only piece left is the half-broken leg in his hands. Breathing hard, he lets it drop and starts on the table.


End file.
